“You need not be,” he said. “It was not a particularly happy marriage.”
Claudia felt a renewed flash of anger on behalf of the dead duchess.
“Charles is at school in Edinburgh,” he told her. “My son,” he added when she turned her head to look at him. “He is fifteen.”
Oh, goodness, only three years younger than Charlie had been when he left home. How time went by!
The Marquess of Attingsborough and Miss Hunt, she could see, were walking up the slope from the river. They would meet soon.
She wished suddenly that she had never left the tranquillity of her school. Though she half smiled at the thought.Tranquillity?School life hardly offered that. But at least there she always felt more or less in control.
“I am sorry, Claudia,” Charlie said. “You really do not know anything about my life, do you? Just as I know nothing of yours. How could we have grown so far apart? We were once as close as any brother and sister, were we not?”
She pressed her lips together. Theyhadbeen like siblings once upon a very long time ago, it was true. But not toward the end.
“It was not your fault, though, that I left home never to return, was it?” he said. “Or mine either for that matter. It was the fault of circumstances. Who could have predicted that two men and one boy, none of whom I knew, would all die within four months of one another, leaving me with the title of McLeith and properties that went with it?”
He had been planning a career in law. She could remember how stunned he had been when the Scottish solicitor had arrived on her father’s doorstep one afternoon—and then how consumed with excitement and happiness.
She had tried to be happy for and with him, but there had been a chill of apprehension too—one that had been fully justified as later developments had proved.
It was the fault of circumstances.
Perhaps he was right. He had been just a boy thrust into a world so different from the one in which he had grown up that it might have been a different universe. But there was no real excuse for cruelty no matter what the age of the perpetrator.
And he had certainly been cruel.
“We ought to have continued to write to each other after your father’s passing,” he said. “I have missed you, Claudia. I did not realize how much until I saw you again last evening.”
Had he really forgotten? It was astounding—we ought to have continued to write to each other…
Miss Hunt was all gracious smiles as she approached on the marquess’s arm, her eyes on Charlie. Claudia might have been invisible.
“Your grace,” she called, “is this not a lovely party?”
“It has just,” he said, smiling and bowing, “turned even lovelier, Miss Hunt.”
Joseph found himself facing a dilemma. Miss Martin was walking with McLeith. Did she need rescuing again, as she had last evening? But why should he feel responsible for her today? She was no wilting violet of a woman. She was quite capable of extricating herself from McLeith’s company if she wished.
Besides, he had been rather hoping not to encounter her again today. He had embarrassed himself earlier. He did not know quite what had come over him. She was looking severe and unapproachable, the quintessential spinster schoolmistress again—certainly not the type of woman with whom he would expect to share a spark of sexual awareness.
Should he stop now to see if she showed any sign of distress about her companion? Or should he merely nod genially and pass by? But the matter was taken out of his hands. Portia, it seemed, had an acquaintance with the duke and hailed him as soon as they were close enough to be heard clearly.
“You flatter me, your grace,” she said in reply to his lavish compliment. “The Marquess of Attingsborough and I have been on the river. It was very pleasant, though the breeze is a little too cool out there and the sun is glaring enough to damage the complexion.”
“But not yours, Miss Hunt,” the duke said. “Not even the sun has that much power.”
Joseph meanwhile had caught Miss Martin’s eye. He half raised his eyebrows and inclined his head slightly in the direction of McLeith—do you need help?Her eyes widened a fraction in return and she shook her head almost imperceptibly—no, thank you.
“You are too kind, your grace,” Portia said. “We are on our way up to the terrace for tea. Have you eaten?”
“An hour or more ago,” he said, “but I suddenly find myself ravenous again. Are you hungry, Claudia? And have you been introduced to Miss Hunt?”
“I have,” she said. “And I have not eaten yet this afternoon though I am not hungry.”
“You must come and eat now, then,” Miss Hunt said, addressing herself to McLeith. “Are you enjoying being in England again, your grace?”
And then all four of them were walking in the direction of the house, though they had somehow changed partners. Miss Hunt was slightly ahead with McLeith while Joseph fell behind with Miss Martin.
